


Hound

by Masu_Trout



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Emotional Manipulation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: Some nights he dreams about wrapping both hands around the great Dr. Rucker's throat.Viktor is Talos Rucker's second-in-command, confidant, friend. And, on the nights when Talos needs it, he's more than that.





	Hound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).



Viktor's hands weren't designed for gentleness. 

His left, a repurposed construction augmentation, is built to intimidate; the right is subtler, closer to human, but much more deadly. Some nights he dreams of wrapping them both around the great Dr. Rucker's throat and squeezing. 

He can't, though. Not yet. Not until his masters give the order. And no matter how much experience he has, no matter that he's here in the middle of it all and sees more of what's going on than they ever could, none of _them_ are about to take his advice.

The men and women in their ivory towers move their pawns how they like. And to them, Viktor is nothing more than yet another pawn.

His right hand twitches, rising on instinct to trace the surgical scar at the base of his skull, as he walks through the door of Talos' office.

"Viktor," Talos says. He's sprawled out on a plush chair with one hand clutching loosely at a shot glass, looking as miserable as Viktor's ever seen him. "There you are. What a disaster."

His face is ruddy, his eyes bloodshot. Drops of vodka cling to the bottom of his glass. He was drunk before he went on TV, and now that he's had to suffer through that interview—an absolute fucking disaster, he isn't wrong about that—he's only going to get himself drunker as the night wears on.

"Of course not," Viktor says, forcing a half-smile onto his face. "You put up a good showing. Not your fault Picus' reporter spouts bullshit."

Lucky for Viktor, none of his smiles ever come out looking too friendly. Makes it easier to fake. And it gets even easier when he plucks Talos' glass from his lax fingers, ignoring the sound of protest Talos makes, and brings it back over to his desk to refill it once more.

"Ah, my friend." Talos sighs gratefully when Viktor returns the now-full glass to him, clutching it like a lifeline. "What would I do without you?"

Live longer, probably. Or perhaps he would sit here alone, shut up his own little tower—rusted metal and water-stained concrete, nothing so fancy as ivory for him—and drink himself to an even quicker death. 

It's an amusing idea. Viktor, ARC's protector. The smile that crosses his face at the thought is all too real.

(Though, it's not too wrong, is it? Viktor's loyalties might be tangled, but he is protecting the people here—from Talos' high-minded ideals, from a lofty dream that would see them driven from their homes and left to rot in the streets without ever so much as raising a hand in their own defense. It's not a protection they realize they need, is all, blinded as they are by their savior's fine words.)

"Ah, my brother." He moves Talos' legs with one hand, freeing up enough space for him to perch on the armrest of Talos' chair. It creaks, but doesn't give—sturdier construction than he expected. "If I weren't here, you'd have someone else at your side. There's no shortage of people willing to give their lives for you."

Talos sighs, glancing with dark-ringed eyes around the room. His whole office is like a living museum: books and furniture and machinery alike thrown about the place, every available surface covered in clutter. Viktor can't imagine what comfort he finds in this chaos.

"So many willing people," he says, "and yet I'm glad it is you." His free hand comes up, tentatively, to rest on Viktor's knee.

 _Someday you won't be_ , Viktor does not say. 

He knows this melancholy. He's seen Talos in this strange, sad mood many times before—the nights when the alcohol seems to bring him no comfort, when he drinks and drinks and only grows more restless. It's no mystery what Talos wants from him now.

When Talos downs the rest of his drink in one quick, desperate gulp, Viktor doesn't stop him. Doesn't offer him another refill, either. He just waits, still as a statue, for Talos to look his way. 

Viktor's hands itch with desire. Talos is so close that he can smell the stink of liquor on him, and Viktor can imagine clear as day what a relief it would be to finally abandon this sham. He wants Talos to know, in the moments before he dies, who Viktor really is.

But when Talos' hands come up to cup his face, he only makes a low, acquiescing noise in the back of his throat. He doesn't raise a hand, doesn't flinch away.

It's for the sake of his mission, Viktor reminds himself. He is a very good actor. 

Talos pulls him down into an awkward, clumsy kiss that tastes of vodka, fingers tangled in the collar of his coat, and Viktor kisses him back with a fondness that could almost feel real.


End file.
